


For you, always.

by otma16718



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otma16718/pseuds/otma16718
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal loved Mischa with all his heart, he promised always to protect her. But he couldn't hold true to his promise, not when he wasn't in control. This is where it all began, where the teacup was, irreparably but inevitably, smashed into a thousand pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For you, always.

Hannibal Lecter was six years old when his sister, Mischa, was born. He hadn't been very interested when his sister was just a 'bump', preferring to play outside or watch his Dad cook than to feel the baby kicking through his mother's skin. His mother was meant for him, there shouldn't be anyone else. Hannibal didn't want to share. 

When the baby was born, Hannibal had a change of heart. From the moment he first laid eyes on his sister, Hannibal was drawn in like a drowning creature. Her pale new-baby eyes locked onto his face and stared and Hannibal couldn't tear his gaze away. 

"Her name is 'Mischa'", his mother said, carefully placing the baby in Hannibal's scrawny arms. He barely heard her. 

"Mischa." Hannibal tried the name out; it took a certain delicacy in order to say, as though you had to treasure the name every time it passed your lips. Hannibal knew he would. As the warm, fleshy baby settled in his arms, Hannibal made a silent promise that he would always protect her. 

Hannibal held Mischa every day, spending as much time with her as possible. He even watched over her as she slept, stroking her tiny, soft hand with his finger until it twisted, and miniscule digits grasped his own; a silent, unconscious plea to never be abandoned. 

Affectionately, Hannibal's mother started to called him "Mischa's little guardian angel." Hannibal did not object. 

Over the next weeks and months, Mischa grew. Hannibal watched, fascinated, as his sister's eyes changed from sky blue to the same golden brown of his own eyes. Even now, nobody could mistake them for anything other than siblings. Hannibal smiled every time he saw Mischa, and his smile grew inexplicably wider when she smiled back at him. Hannibal watched as Mischa learned to roll from her back to her front, kicking her chubby legs at him happily when she achieved her tiny ounce of freedom. 

Whenever he could, Hannibal would carry Mischa around with him, balancing her on his hip as he'd seen his mother do. He would take her out into the garden and show her all the things that fascinated him: the way the light danced between long blades of grass as they blew in the wind, the small flowers hidden among the vegetables, and the butterflies that flew through the air in the spring breeze. Mischa smiled and giggled, reaching out her starfish hands towards anything that took her fancy. Her round cheeks would be rosy with the Sun and with happiness. 

Soon, Mischa grew heavy, too heavy for Hannibal to carry. So he stayed inside, patiently showing her how to sit up, and rebalancing her whenever she started to topple. Sometimes, to keep her occupied, Hannibal would sit Mischa on his lap and play the piano, but little hands would creep under his own and bash the keys mercilessly, rendering the tune unrecognisable. Hannibal would not be angry, though; he would simply laugh and bend down to kiss the top of Mischa's downy head.  
For Mischa’s first birthday, Hannibal made a cake for her all by himself, with only a little help from his Dad. He wanted to do it in secret, but even being separated from Mischa for a couple of hours was almost too much to bear; he only just stopped himself from running to the nursery, grabbing Mischa from her cot, and showing her what he was making. When Mischa did finally see the finished cake, her eyes lit up. It was a delicate chocolate cake, with the word ‘Mischa’ carefully iced in Hannibal’s loopy, if somewhat wobbly, writing. Hannibal could do nothing but laugh when a small fist emerged and grabbed a handful of icing, ruining the intricate design. Hannibal also gave Mischa a small gift, wrapped in pastel green paper with a pink ribbon. Inside was a white enamel hairbrush, with a cursive M embossed on the back. Mischa grasped it by the handle and smiled. 

By this time, Mischa had a soft tuft of fluff on the top of her head. It was bleach blonde, and caught the sun in a way that made it look almost like a halo. Hannibal's mother said his hair did the same, and called them her "two little angels". She was very fond of both her precious offspring. 

As Mischa became more adventurous, her need to do something more freeing than crawl forced her into action. Hannibal sat face-to-face with Mischa, allowing her to use his bony body as a stabiliser; her little hands would grasp his clothes and skin, almost painfully at times (although Hannibal never so much as flinched) and pulled herself up. Once on her feet, Mischa would reach for Hannibal's face - she was as fascinated by him as he was by her. Mischa watched Hannibal’s eyes crinkle as he smiled at her, and she would smile back, touching his cheeks with her fingertips. 

It wasn't long before Mischa's strength and bravery grew. Hannibal would sit on the floor, and let Mischa stand just a baby-step in front of him. She would watch him with her big, trusting eyes, and Hannibal would open his arms and say, "Come to me, Mischa." She would smile, reaching out her own arms towards her brother, and then clumsily put one foot forwards. Every time she toppled, Hannibal would catch her with his big swooping arms, draw her close to him and kiss her on the nose until they both laughed aloud. Their parents would watch from the doorway, smiling proudly, their hands clasped together in the shadows. 

When Mischa took her first proper step, it was into Hannibal's arms. Hannibal smiled so wide he thought he'd never be able to stop, and he lifted Mischa into the air, cheering and laughing as she giggled happily. After that, it didn't take long before Mischa could take several steps, and then she was crossing the whole room, always with Hannibal hovering behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. Hannibal took Mischa outside again, letting her walk across the grass, which made for a softer landing. Mischa smiled as the delicate blades of grass tickled her toes, and laughed even harder when Hannibal sat her in his lap and tickled her more. 

As Mischa grew more confident in her walking, she would explore the garden, always with Hannibal right beside her. Her hair, starting to grow properly by this time, blew gently in the breeze, floating from side to side. Every now and then, Hannibal would comb his hands through it to neaten it, and Mischa would turn, looking up at him, before breaking out into a grin, which Hannibal always returned.  
Slowly, Mischa’s words started to come. Her first proper word, of course, was Mama, at which Hannibal could only bring himself to be a little hurt. Hannibal’s name proved to be tricky to say. At first, he was Ha-ha, which filled Hannibal with joy; it was just perfect, that Mischa would sound like she was laughing every time she tried to say his name.

Hannibal would lead Mischa through the house and garden, pointing things out and naming them: “That’s a flower, can you say flower, Mischa?” “Fwower, Ha-ha.” The ‘L’s were somewhat lacking, but Hannibal praised Mischa every time, smiling when her face lit up with pride. 

Before long, “Ha-ha” became “Hanni”, and then “Hannibah”. Mischa could never master the ending of his name, but Hannibal didn’t care. His sister, his world, was slowly being unlocked and let out to explore; every word meant more freedom. Hannibal couldn’t wait to have proper conversations with Mischa, the way he imagined she would speak really fast when something really interesting had happened, stumbling over her words in a rush to get them out. 

By her second birthday, Mischa could say short sentences, which usually made sense. Again, Hannibal worked hard in the kitchen for hours, making an even more intricate cake than the previous year. He’d practised icing Mischa’s name over and over again, making it as neat as possible. This year, he’d done it with melted milk chocolate onto fluffy vanilla buttercream. Mischa had squealed with excitement when Hannibal had walked in, carrying the cake, complete with two small candles, into the dining room. 

“Fank you, Hanni.” She gazed up at him, eyes wide, blinking slowly as she watched his face, which glowed in the candlelight. 

“For you, always.” Hannibal whispered, stroking her hair. 

After they had eaten, Hannibal presented Mischa with another package, again wrapped in pastel green with a pale pink ribbon. He watched with pride as Mischa opened the gift herself, and broke into a toothy grin at Mischa’s short, sharp intake of breath. Delight burst in her eyes. In her small hands, she turned the magnifying glass over and over, mesmerised. 

Mischa would lead Hannibal out to the garden by the hand, pulling him along after her. She would drop to her knees, and Hannibal would squat beside her. The magnifying glass clasped in her right hand, she would find maybe a flower, a leaf, even a dead butterfly, and inspect it, marvelling at all the details. Hannibal told her about pressing petals and leaves, so that she could store them. Mischa grabbed at his clothes, begging Hannibal to show her, so together they made a book of petals, using the leather-bound notebook Hannibal had been treasuring since his birthday months ago. He didn’t mind. Anything used for something Mischa wanted was something well used. He promised Mischa he would treasure it forever. 

“I’ll treasure it the way I treasure you; forever and always.” He declared, tucking it safely away on his bookshelf. 

Mischa beamed up at him, “We can treasure it together, Hanni.”  
At night, Hannibal would read Mischa stories. The books always had pictures in them, which Mischa would gaze at, letting her imagination run as Hannibal carefully read the words. Sometimes, if it had been rainy and they had been forced indoors, Hannibal would make his own books for Mischa, complete with delicate pencil-drawn images. As soon as she could hold a pencil, Mischa would draw pictures too. When she proudly presented them to him, Hannibal would make a show of pinning them to his wall, saying he’d look at them every day and think of her. 

When Mischa had a nightmare, Hannibal would hold her until the tears stopped, and then he would lead her by the hand to his room, and tuck her in beside him. 

“I’ll always protect you, Mischa.” His whispered into the shell of her ear.

“I know, Hanni. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mischa.”

Their parents began to ask if Hannibal wanted to make some friends, but he would simply say, “What other friend could I possibly need?” He didn’t understand why he would need anyone else to play with, not when he had Mischa. 

On Mischa’s third birthday, Hannibal made another cake, and presented her with another present wrapped in pastel green with a pale pink ribbon. Inside, Mischa found her very own pencils and pad of paper to draw with. After inspecting each pencil carefully, Micha leapt to her feet and ran to Hannibal, throwing her arms around him.

“Thank you, Hanni!”

Hannibal didn’t even get time to utter a response before he was being dragged away to try out the new drawing equipment. It quickly became apparent that Mischa had a talent for drawing that was bound to surpass even Hannibal’s own admirable skills. He was never jealous of the fact, only ever proud that his sister could create such beauty from so little. 

Mischa and Hannibal were each other’s world, so when the rest of the world came crashing down around them, they knew nothing else but to turn to one another for support. They were told one evening, as they sat at the table eating stew, Mischa slurping messily from her spoon. It was all very fast. Everyone was very sorry. They were orphans. 

“But won’t Mummy and Daddy be back later for a goodnight cuddle?” Mischa asked, looking up with a crease on her forehead. 

Hannibal grasped her hand and tried not to cry. “Not anymore, Mischa.”

“Not ever again?”

“No, never again.”

Mischa didn’t really understand, Hannibal knew that. But when she saw the tears fall down his cheeks, she got up from her chair, rounded the table, and climbed onto his lap. 

“It’s alright, Hanni. I can cuddle you goodnight.”

Hannibal smiled and hugged Mischa close, burying his face in her hair. She smelled of milk and strawberries. He would never forget the feel of her body pressed against him, as she comforted him for something which should have been equally devastating for her. That night, Hannibal slept in Mischa’s bed, and he cried silently long after she had fallen asleep, nestled against him trustingly, legs pulled up to her chest, and head in the crook of his neck. 

After that, Hannibal had to go to school. He didn’t want to go; he wanted to stay at home, playing in the garden with Mischa and teaching her everything that he knew. Mischa didn’t want him to go either, and she clung to him, crying, until she was pulled away by a maid. Hannibal got into a fight at school that day, and came home with bruised, bloody knuckles and a loose tooth. None of the other children liked him very much after that.

Even when Hannibal was at school, Mischa would be waiting at the door when he returned. She stood in the doorway, watching and waiting for his silhouette to appear in the distance. When he was through the gates and walking up the gravel path, she would dash away from the maid and run towards him, throwing her arms out and hugging him close. 

“I missed you, Hanni.”

“I missed you too, Mischa.”

Mischa waited every day for him. And every day she had drawn a new picture for him to look at. Sometimes it was of the house, sometimes it was of himself, smiling or laughing in a way he rarely did these days. At night, Hannibal taught her letters, and she practised those too, proudly showing Hannibal her name, or even a sentence. She copied from their story books mostly. Hannibal would kiss her head, and praise her, and Mischa would glow. 

“You’ll go to school one day, Mischa. And they’ll be so proud of you, when they see you can already read and write.”

“But I don’t want to go to school; can’t you just teach me?”

“Why don’t you want to go to school?” 

“The other children are all mean.”

“Nobody would be mean to you, Mischa. They’d all love you.”

“They don’t love you though.” Mischa was sad then, worried she’d upset Hannibal somehow, because he looked at the floor and swallowed. 

“People don’t like me, not the way they’d like you.”  
“I like you, Hanni. In fact, I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Even more than chocolate? Or drawing?”

Mischa punched him in the stomach playfully. “Of course I do, Hanni! I love you more than anything.” Her earnest voice was a bigger punch in the gut than anything Mischa could physically do to Hannibal. He smiled weakly and pulled her close. 

“I know, Mischa. And I love you more than anything too.” 

Until one day she wasn’t waiting. Hannibal walked up the gravelly drive alone. The door was hanging open, but Mischa wasn’t there. Hannibal instantly sensed something was up, and called her in the house, then out in the garden. Then he called the maid. She was red and flustered. 

“Where’s Mischa?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Master Hannibal. She just wandered off. We can’t find her anywhere. I took my eyes off her for a moment, only a moment, and she was gone.”

Then Hannibal was running, through the house, calling. Then in the garden, hunting high and low, always calling and calling. He asked everyone, all the staff, but none of them had seen her. Hot, angry tears streamed down Hannibal’s face. Mischa didn’t wander off, she never wandered off.

He couldn’t admit the truth to himself, but he knew it, even as his feet led him towards the river at the end of the gardens. It wasn’t right, it couldn’t be right. It was the only possibility left.

Hannibal spent hours looking for her little body, dreading finding it. But he never did. He imagined it had washed downstream. He imagined her screams, gargling as water filled her mouth, unheard by the ignorant staff. He imagined the water filling her lungs, burning them painfully, until she couldn’t feel anymore. He imagined her dying thought, saw himself through her eyes, smiling and laughing. It would be years before he smiled again. All he wanted to do was jump into the river after her, to drown with her physically, even as he felt himself already drowning, but that wouldn’t do her justice. Not real justice. Mischa deserved more than that; Mischa always deserved more. 

Hannibal sat for hours by the river, watching the water which had taken his world away from him. It was just a bit of hydrogen and oxygen, but it had taken something Hannibal could never take back. He sat until the Sun set and his cheeks were stiff with moisture.

Then he stood up, empty. 

“For you, always.” Hannibal muttered to himself, trudging back towards the house, head down and eyes drained of tears.

After ‘the incident’, as everyone tactlessly referred to it, Hannibal was moved away, to his Uncle’s house. He carefully packed up all of his things, and Mischa’s things too; her hairbrush, still with the odd pale strand tangled within the bristles, her magnifying glass, her pencils and paper. He collected all of her drawings, all of her writing, packing it away neatly, wrapped in brown parcel paper. On her desk was the drawing she never gave him; the one which should have been clutched in her hand, when she should have been waiting at the door for him that day. It showed herself and Hannibal, sitting together under a willow tree by the river. Hannibal almost tore it up when he found it. Almost. 

Finally, he took their book of pressed petals and leaves. All the specimens were labelled, first in Hannibal’s elegant hand, and the more recent ones in Mischa’s wobbly, round letters. In the back of the book, Hannibal meticulously listed every name of every person who had been at the house that day. Someday, he would make them pay for their carelessness, he would make them all pay. 

But he knew it would never be enough; it would never bring Mischa back. All he had was memories and pictures. The pictures made Hannibal angry; they showed everything that had been taken away, not just from him, but from Mischa too. The artist she could have become was lost, as was the colour of her eyes when the light shone through them at a certain angle, so they looked golden, rather than brown. 

Memories, like pencil, fade with time. This was something Hannibal discovered, something he tried in vain to prevent. Carefully, sitting on his floor in his uncle’s home, he wrapped each drawing, having bought fixative and sprayed each one first. Almost forty years later, when he would next open them, they would be faded, but the outlines would still be visible, just about. Memories were more fickle, so Hannibal spent hours on end constructing a memory palace, where Mischa could live on, safe from the outside world. But even here, the sound of her laughter would fade to silence, as would her earnest voice, and the details of her face would appear almost smudged, at times indistinguishable. Hannibal rarely visited this wing of his palace, it reminded him too starkly of the many ways he had failed Mischa, and continued to fail her.

There was one way, though, in which Hannibal could make things better. One way he could bring the smashed teacup back together. And, as soon as he was ready, Hannibal set out to do just that.

“For you, always.” Hannibal whispered, sharpening his knife for the very first time.

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you like the fic! This is currently a one-shot, but it could become a longer fic if people are interested. Please let me know what you think :)


End file.
